


Love Is(n't) An Open Door

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [15]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Accidental Exhibitionism, Accidental Voyeurism, Blowjobs, First Time, Five Times, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-16 11:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18520855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Tommy makes a couple of timing errors and accidentally leaves a couple of doors unlocked. It works out in the end.Or: five times Tommy gets caught with his pants down.





	Love Is(n't) An Open Door

Lovett gets home late that night and the house is weirdly quiet. He dumps his backpack as soon as the door is closed, flicking on a light so he doesn't fall over anyone's shoes.

He makes his way into the kitchen for a caffeine-free diet Coke and, examining his options in the fridge and the cupboards, a couple of slices of bread with peanut butter. Almost a sandwich. Definitely almost counts as dinner.

He's halfway through making it, already sipping his Coke, when he decides to go upstairs and change into sweats for the evening. In retrospect, this was an unfortunate decision. Or maybe a very, very fortunate one.

He's checking his phone as he goes—no one listens to the hundreds of times Cody has told them all they'll break their neck on the stairs like that—and pauses at the top, which is pretty much the only reason he's there when—

There's a giggle, first of all, and light emerging from the wide-open door of the bathroom. The giggle is what makes him look up, because it sure isn't one of his housemates. He has a moment's thought that burglars don't usually giggle—do they?—but that maybe counter-intelligence agents do, and has he left anything classified in his room?

But: it's definitely not a break-in, because when he looks up to find the source of the giggle, what he gets is a full face of Tommy buttoning up a men’s shirt on a fairly tiny woman who's not wearing anything else. Tommy's barely wearing anything, either, just boxers, and they're both dripping wet and ... certainly very pleased with the world in a way Lovett identifies as post-coital before his brain even fully catches up to what he's seeing.

He doesn't think he says anything but he must make some sound because the woman turns to him, like she's the one surprised. Lovett guesses she probably is, if they were doing... whatever they were doing with the door open. He wouldn't be doing that if he thought his hook-up's roommates were likely to be wandering the halls, that's for sure.

Tommy catches her movement and spins around, too. He's—well. Gleaming, a little bit. Water is dripping down his chest and his belly, into the low waistband of his boxers, and Lovett makes himself look away and paste on an awkward smile. “I'll just ... go back downstairs. Pretend none of this happened. What happened? Nothing! Absolutely—you know what, I'll just—”

He shuts up and turns around, takes the stairs two at a time until he's back in the relative safety of the kitchen.

His peanut-butter dinner is where he left it, half-spread on the counter with his Coke can next to it. Lovett stares very hard at it and absolutely does not think about the freckles on Tommy's chest, spattered up over his pecs, or about how pink he'd been, flushed from the heat of the shower, presumably, and from all the rest.

He can hear voices upstairs, so he grabs his food and heads to the couch. At least there he can be vaguely out of their way if they come downstairs: a galley kitchen really has nowhere to hide. Inconvenient planning on the part of that architect.

He isn’t expecting the woman to go past him with her gaze fixed on the exit, walking with enough purpose that Lovett’s sure he shouldn’t try to engage. She lets herself out, and before Lovett can relax, Tommy comes in. He’s still shirtless. Lovett is in hell.

He's wearing sweatpants—Lovett spares a brief moment to think longingly about his own sweatpants that he never got to change into, comfortable and familiar and not these suit pants he's been wearing for 12 solid hours—which is a small mercy, except that Lovett isn't really thinking about small mercies when Tommy flops down on the couch next to him, stretching his arm out across the back of the cushions.

Still shirtless, Lovett's brain points out. Totally shirtless. No shirt on that Vietor at all.

“Uh—escaped before nine after all, then?” Tommy asks, and Lovett remembers, now, the rant he’d delivered over text about not getting out before nine for the third night this week.

“Jon said I was draining morale,” Lovett says, not looking over. “He was kidding but he didn’t stop me from packing up at seven, so.”

Tommy could say something here about Lovett being a mood killer, Lovett realises, and he braces for it. It doesn't come. Instead, he feels Tommy tap the back of the couch, like he's thinking.

“Is that dinner?” Tommy asks, and nods at Lovett's haphazard sandwich.

“Good solid American heartland food, Tommy. I thought you were team Iowa, I can’t believe you don’t recognize an authentic peanut-butter-and-nothing sandwich.”

Tommy laughs. “Uh huh. You know there’s jelly, right? And bananas. And like ... vegetables and stuff.”

“Some of us don’t have your harrowing campaign memories,” Lovett says. “Some of us were already well-treated senior staff during the primaries.” Then, because he’s never been good at not touching hot stoves, “So she seemed nice.”

Tommy immediately ducks his head; he might not fidget like Jon does, but he still has his tells. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty nice.”

“Uh-huh,” Lovett says, and takes a bite of his sandwich. That makes it difficult, but not impossible, to add, “So she'll be coming around again?”

Tommy jiggles his knee. “Uh,” he says, “I don't think so, no. Probably not.”

Lovett should not comment. He absolutely should not. “One-night stands let you leave the bathroom door open? Does she think you live alone? Because—”

“It wasn't—open the whole time!” Tommy splutters. “You weren't supposed to be home until late! And Cody and Michael are on that trip—”

 _That's_ where they are. Lovett vaguely remembers being told about a speech in North Carolina he wasn't assigned to.

“ _I'm_ not in North Carolina,” Lovett says. He's trying to think what it would take for him to have sex with the door open in someone's shared house. “What if I had been earlier? There are some things I don't need to see, Thomas.” _Your chest, for one_ , he thinks, and doesn't mean.

Tommy just coughs and says, “You wanna watch something? A movie?”

Lovett doesn’t say, “Aren’t you cold?” because, apparently, he’s a masochist. He says, “I get to pick.”

“Sure,” Tommy says, like he hasn't argued with Lovett about three out of the last four movies he picked and then talked through the fourth. He settles further on the couch. His thigh is very close to Lovett. “You pick.”

***

Tommy's so fucking hard it aches. He breathes hard into Melissa's neck, resists the urge to bite. She won't appreciate if he leaves a mark where anyone can see it, he's pretty sure. He only met her recently, but he thinks he gets her overall vibe.

She's got a hand in his hair and she's pulling the way he likes, just on the edge of too sharp, and she's rolling her hips up against his, her skirt mussed up round her waist.

He can feel the heat even through his jeans; he has a hand on her bare thigh, and his fingers twitch with how much he wants to slide it up and feel her, how wet he’s sure she is. She uses her grip on his hair to tug him back in, kissing his mouth, and Tommy transfers his hand to the safer and still desperately attractive outside curve of her breast through her bra, until she says, “Yeah, you—you can.”

She rolls her hips up again, like confirmation, and arches up as Tommy slides his hand down her side. She's wearing tiny panties, and she makes a gorgeous, gorgeous noise when he cups her through them.

She’s so fucking warm against his fingers, already damp through the cotton. The room is starting to smell like sex, and it’s making his mouth water. “You’re so hot,” he tells her, and then, awkward, “Can I—let me go down on you?”

She laughs, breathy, her hand still around the back of his neck. “Definitely,” she says, and that's all he needs, wriggling down the couch until—but there's not enough room, not for Tommy to fold himself up and really move the way he wants to, so he slides to his knees, and parts her legs. Melissa laughs again, and hooks a leg over his shoulder.

“Show me what you've got,” she says, grinning.

God, that’s exactly right. She reminds him, in a sudden flash, of Lovett, who’s probably exactly like that in bed. _Show me what you’ve got._

He yanks her panties off, and she lifts her legs enough to let him. “You—god—you like this, huh?” she asks, and instead of answering, he just spreads her thighs wider with both hands and goes for it.

He _does_ like this, he likes this so fucking much. Using his mouth on someone, being trusted to take them apart like this, to use his tongue like _this_ and his fingers like _that_ , the feel of a woman's thighs closing around his ears when he does something good, the sounds they make when he does something better.

She's into it, too; she's pulling his hair again, keeping him close, and her heel is pushed so hard against his back it almost feels like he couldn't move even if he wanted to. She's groaning—god, he likes when he can make someone _loud_ , make them forget to care about anyone hearing. And most of all she's so fucking wet, the taste of her filling his mouth and making him attempt, futilely, to grind against the couch.

He licks up into her, feeling the strength of her muscles around his tongue, and then shifts up further on his knees to focus in on her clit; judging by the way she groans again, her hand tightening in his hair, it's a good call. God, god, it's good—there's no way he can spare a hand right now to press against his dick but he _would_ , he really would. He can lose himself in this, in the taste of her, in the way his whole world narrows down to this, to making her feel good, to the sharp tug of her fingers in her hair.

And that's—well, probably that's why he doesn't hear the door open.

What he does notice is her suddenly pulling away from him, saying “oh, shit” in a definitely less pleased tone, and throwing her skirt back over herself. It almost goes over his head, but by then he’s had a second to react, to start spinning around to block her from view of the door, where—where Lovett is standing, wide-eyed and frozen, keys still in his hand.

“Lovett?” Tommy says, his voice going up high. He's suddenly aware of the air cool against his wet chin, about how it's probably shining in the light Lovett's flipped on. Lovett is—staring, still, like he's too shocked to move.

Tommy scrubs the back of his hand across his face, then thinks, _if he didn’t notice anything, he’s got the point now, dummy._

He glances back at Melissa. “Lovett, can you, like—in or out? Preferably out.”

Lovett starts. “Right,” he says. He's got his backpack slung over one shoulder and he's already taken off his tie, and he looks more out of sorts, awkward, than Tommy remembers since the transition office. “Yeah, fuck, sorry, I'll—”

“ _Lovett_ ,” Tommy says.

“Sorry! Sorry.” Lovett glances back behind him, then shuts the door. Still on this side. “I really have to pee, but I’ll go—upstairs. Stay upstairs.”

“Any minute now!”

“Sorry. You’d think I’d be better at this, twice in three weeks this happens—”

Tommy winces. Behind him, Melissa says, “What?”

“Shit,” Lovett says, “uh, sorry, sorry,” and he's scurrying past the couch, eyes averted. “I'll be—upstairs. Very upstairs. Headphones, and—”

“Lovett!”

“—gone, I'm gone—” and the door to the stairs slams shut. Tommy listens to his footsteps hurry away and feels—embarrassed, obviously. And ashamed, for not thinking earlier about the possibility that someone might walk in. And—jangly, all over, flushed and off-kilter.

He turns, trying to figure out what to say, but it’s instantly clear there’s not going to be anything that will help. Melissa looks furious and embarrassed, already back in her coat somehow, like she’s been planning an exit while he talked to Lovett. “Don’t,” she bites out when Tommy opens his mouth to try anyway. “Fucking—don’t.”

“I'm so sorry,” Tommy says anyway, because he is. “That's—” he moves so she can stand up, so he's not blocking her way “—I didn't—that wasn't—”

Melissa puts her shoes back on, straightens out her hair. She's not looking at him and, honestly, Tommy can't blame her. “Really,” she says, just as tightly. “Really don't.”

He still can’t stop himself saying “Sorry” again as she exits. She doesn’t acknowledge it. He sits back onto the couch, and then slumps until he’s almost falling off it, arm over his face. “So, uh—that sure happened,” Lovett says from somewhere nearby.

Tommy can't come out from under his arm and look at Lovett. He's giving some serious thought to just never coming out from under his arm at all.

Lovett, of course, rarely needs outside participation to keep a conversation going. “Sorry about saying—but I mean, it _was_ twice in three weeks. Three and a half? Maybe three and a half. I don't think the detail would have helped, honestly. Was she less into the, uh, exhibitionism than the last one? Because I feel like maybe you should have warned her—”

“It's not exhibitionism!” Tommy bursts out, pulling his arm away from his face to glare at Lovett. “It was just an error in judgment! Can you not?”

Lovett holds his hands up, exaggerated. “I said I'm sorry! Honestly, it's not what a man _expects_ when he comes home, you know? Especially not—” he waves a hand in what Tommy hopes, futilely, is not meant to indicate finding Tommy going down on someone on their couch. On _Lovett's_ couch, he remembers, suddenly. Shit.

“Um. I'll clean the couch,” Tommy offers.

Lovett waves it off. “Please, that couch has seen so much. I mean, not a lot of—that—but still. It should probably be burned, honestly.”

Tommy glances down. “Great?”

“What, do you want me to be mad about it?” Lovett hasn't made one recognisable expression since he walked in and it feels like Tommy's had the rug pulled out from under him, from being—Lovett caught him, but the way Tommy feels right now, it's like he missed a step, like something was _supposed_ to catch him and Tommy fell past it.

“No?” Tommy answers, belatedly. “No, I just—” He shrugs. “She was pretty mad. Not my best, like, evening.”

Lovett purses his lips, twitches them to the side. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. We could watch the Simpsons or something? That's what I do when, like, I don't want to think about stuff.”

Not thinking about stuff sounds great. It sounds better, frankly, than Tommy really thinks he deserves right now. At least he's not still hard, which is something, and isn't that a kicker, when the upside to your night is the lack of an erection.

“I gotta say,” Lovett says, clearly taking Tommy’s silence as a yes, already picking up the remote, “This is an area where being gay is clearly superior. A guy would not have cared that much.”

Tommy thinks about how he would feel if he were, uh, on the other end of this equation and can't really agree, but maybe Lovett knows something he doesn't. Maybe gay is different to... to whatever Tommy is.

“You would have cared,” he points out, because Lovett wears two towels when he gets out of the bathroom, and neither of them is on his hair.

Lovett shakes his head. “Not if y—not if someone was—” He stops, coughs. “Okay, listen, Ned Flanders doesn't approve of this conversation.”

“I don't think Ned Flanders would approve much about tonight,” Tommy says. He scoots over on the couch, making room for Lovett.

Lovett, because he's Lovett, makes a show of inspecting the couch cushion before he does. He's not wearing a tie, and he changed while he was upstairs, so he's in soft sweats and a worn-thin t-shirt. It must have been kind of a rough day, Tommy thinks; that's when most Lovett needs softer clothes.

Maybe Lovett wants to watch cartoons for his own sake as much as for Tommy's. That works for Tommy, actually. It's easier to stop kicking himself, stop seeing that anger on Melissa's face, when it's both of them, trying to feel better together.

Tommy knocks his shoulder against Lovett's. “Bart Simpson waits for no man.”

Lovett glances down, like Tommy knocking against him might have left a mark. “You're right,” he says. “Stop emoting, Thomas. It's time for cartoons.”

Tommy mostly manages to watch. He's still feeling awful about Melissa—maybe he can text her a more detailed apology?—and also kind of stuck on Lovett saying _a guy would not have cared that much_. It doesn't seem exactly right, but then, Lovett would know. Lovett knows all about ... guys. Maybe Tommy should—not that he's _trying_ to get into these embarrassing situations, just—maybe he should pick up a guy for once and kind of reset himself. It's been forever, anyway, and now that he's thinking about it, it feels exciting. He hasn't gone down on a guy since, god, maybe junior year of college? Or, no, there was Miles, those handful of times in Iowa. Still, that's too long.

He tries to focus on Marge and Homer's interplay, not very successfully. It's probably weird that he's just had this terrible experience and now he's right onto thinking about the next hookup. It's probably terrible. Although he didn't get off, so maybe it's natural. Just built-up energy, bouncing around in his brain.

He can't stop jiggling his leg, which is probably the same thing, nervous energy, leftover, looking for somewhere to go. Lovett still seems kind of off, beside him, not quite as relaxed as he usually is on an evening.

He has, suddenly, a burst of—he could just go jerk off, right now. Just get up and go shower and get himself off. It would feel good; it might help him relax better than the Simpsons is doing.

He'd be leaving Lovett alone, though, and Lovett seems stressed. Maybe when one of the other guys comes home, Lovett can watch TV with them, and Tommy can go—yeah.

He tries not to telegraph any of that too blatantly. He doesn't want to make Lovett feel like his company's second best, or unwanted, and he definitely doesn't want to make it super obvious that he's thinking about jerking off, even though—even though maybe it _is_ obvious, has to be: Lovett walked in on him having _sex_ , actual _sex_ , and he must know Tommy hasn't come. Maybe he's thinking about it. Maybe he's—This is not a helpful line of thought.

At this point, he's pretty sure escaping is the better part of valor, because if Lovett glances over, this is gonna look pretty weird, that Tommy's hard on the couch next to him. At least Tommy's between him and the exit; he can execute a quick quarter turn and then say over his shoulder, “I really should shower and get to bed.”

It feels like a retreat. It also feels very necessary, the moment he's under the water with his dick in his hand.

He tips his head back under the spray and strokes himself a few times, letting his body know he's doing this, that it's okay. He can still taste Melissa in his mouth—she didn't get to come either, jesus, what a fucking mess—and his underwear was still damp when he stripped off. His nerves have been through a lot, up and down and needing and denied. He has to bite his lip when he starts jerking properly, has to actively try and keep quiet the way he hardly ever does now, so used to sharing a house.

Thinking about Melissa isn't exactly a turn-on anymore—not when it makes him wince with embarrassment—so he deliberately turns his mind away. Just—hands. A hand on his dick that isn't his. That's all. Maybe it's a guy's hand, big and kind of rough, squeezing him hard, not afraid to really pull. Yeah, that's good. A guy, like Lovett said. Lovett's probably had guys jerk him off in this shower, now that Tommy thinks about it. Probably jerked them off. Lovett probably gives a great—Tommy clears his throat and starts over. A guy from a K Street bar, someone—tall and quiet and, fucking, a redhead or something. Someone not at all like anyone Tommy hangs out with or lives with, just some guy with big hands and a full mouth and a tight grip on Tommy's ass as he strokes him.

Someone who would tease him, maybe, while he jerked him off tight, tell him he was eager but smile at him, mean it kindly and friendly and good. Someone who—who knows how to push his buttons, who knows him, with clever wrists and dark eyes and—

He stops himself again and then just leans his head against his forearm on the tile and starts going for it, giving up on thinking at all, just sensation and tight and fast and he makes that enough. Just _this feels good, this feels good_ on a loop in his brain until he comes, white on the tile.

Whatever. The conclusion is just: he'll go pick up a guy, next time he's in the mood to brave the bars. It's been too long. That's all.

***

Lovett almost wants to knock before he enters his own house, at this point. He's maybe being paranoid, but walking in on Tommy twice in such a short span of time is really—it's clearly not outside the realm of possibility that it might happen again.

There’s definitely a part of him that’s starting to think Tommy has a heretofore unrevealed interest in exhibitionism. Which, fine, but Lovett would like him to explore that somewhere where Lovett doesn’t get to see it. _Have_ to see it. Have to see it. Because perving on his straight roommate is not exactly the kind of path Lovett wants to be on as a self-actualized adult working in the damn White House, and having to actually see Tommy—well—it’s not exactly helpful.

Lovett tries not to be in the business of lying to himself, so he can least recognise that he's—thought about Tommy. Like that. Who _wouldn't_ , if they'd walked in on him in the middle of—on him wet-mouthed and flustered, or shirtless and dripping and satisfied.

But that’s exactly why he needs to avoid walking in on Tommy again. There’s already too much grist for the mill of his imagination; any more and it might ... he’s gonna have to google what grist actually is. The point is, he’s got all too many vivid pictures of his _straight roommate_. Plenty. More than enough. So: he’s going to be careful. He’s not knocking on his own damn door, but he’s not going to rush through it, either. Slow pace, eyes down: that’s a workable plan.

It goes okay, as far as having a workable plan to enter your own home goes. He sees Tommy some evenings, sometimes he doesn't. Neither of them bring it up again, and Lovett has almost—almost—managed to take a shower without thinking, reflexively, “Tommy had sex here.”

It's easier to turn off the unhelpful thoughts when they're all out together, what feels like half of the communications staff at their current favorite bar, which is sure to be replaced by a new favorite within three months. When it's just dumb jokes and beer and Lovett feels like one of the guys in a way he's not sure he ever did before the White House.

He's lost track of Tommy, anyway; it's easier not to think about his big arms when Lovett can't see them. He's holed up at a table with Jon and Cody and Mike, all of them talking shop in between insisting that they're not going to talk shop tonight. Lovett sometimes thinks they've all lost the ability to have conversations that aren't about politics.

At the end of a lengthy point from Jon, during which he nearly knocked over all their drinks, Cody gets to his feet to get another round. In the pause between conversations, Lovett gets up too, heads to the bathroom.

He’s not tipsy, but he can feel the beer in his bladder for sure, enough that he’s irritated to find a row of occupied urinals and even more to discover the bar has hung the stall doors to swing closed. He pushes on the first one, finds it locked. Pushes on the second, the third, and then the last one pops open with a soft click of metal, swinging inward.

The thing is—maybe Lovett should have seen this coming. Maybe he should have been expecting this, after the last couple of weeks. Maybe he should have been faster to react, when he pushed the stall door open, or maybe Tommy should have _locked the fucking door_ , because—because Tommy is in there, and so is—Lovett takes it in in flashes almost. Tommy, bracing himself on the sides of the stall. His jeans round his ankles. The guy in front of him, kneeling; Tommy's _face_ —

Tommy sees him, and his eyes go wide—more than wide, huge, white visible all the way around his irises, and he—gasps. It’s not a startled gasp. It’s a gasp Lovett can interpret even without the groan and sudden movement from the guy—the _guy_ , the _man_ , the human male—on his knees with Tommy’s fucking cock in his mouth. It’s Tommy, coming, right fucking there in front of Lovett. For once, Lovett actually manages to flee in complete silence.

He pushes blindly back through the bar to their table and as soon as he sees everyone, he knows there's no way he can sit there and make conversation as though he didn't just see—as though, some feet and a couple unlocked doors away, Tommy didn't just come in a guy's mouth. He makes his excuses—clumsily, if the look on Jon's face is any indicator, and bolts. At least this time he can be pretty goddamn sure he's not going to walk in on Tommy at home.

Tommy and a _guy_. Tommy and a—it’s making him angry, in a way he knows isn’t fair, but which is at least an emotion he can settle into and just crowd out some of the ones he doesn’t want to feel right now. Envy; disappointment. Fuck those.

He has the house to himself for once, with everyone still at the bar, but he isn't in the mood to appreciate it. He goes straight upstairs, forces his dick down enough to piss—finally—and heads to his room without even flipping on a light.

He's unfortunately entirely aware of what he's about to do; that doesn't mean he has to like it. He's been hard pretty much since the bar, since he'd stalked out of the bathroom with the image of Tommy's face—Tommy's fucking orgasm face—still playing in his brain, the glimpse of Tommy's cock and the guy's mouth stretched wide around it. _Quite_ wide around it.

He doesn't need the light on for this. He doesn't _want_ the light on for this, for shoving his pants down and pulling out his cock, jerking himself tightly, almost too tight for it to be good. That guy on his knees. The glimpse of Tommy's bare thighs, straining. Tommy's face, almost entirely blank with pleasure. Lovett's been on his knees in a bathroom before. He knows what it's like to make a guy come that way, illicit and fast.

If that's what Tommy wanted—it could have been Lovett down there, mouth stretched like that, eyes shut, just—just zoning out on the cock in his throat. Or not zoning out, because he could look up and see Tommy watching him. Tommy, gasping and coming when the door opened, flooding his mouth until it dripped out over his chin and—Lovett bites down on the ball of his other hand, hard, and comes. It's not even a very good orgasm, but it does its work. For long moments, afterward, he feels the tension draining out of him. He's heavy on the bed; he doesn't want to move again, and he's regretting not getting his pants all the way off so he could just give up and sleep.

He lies there in the dark until the need to clean himself off overpowers his need not to stay exactly where he is, and then he does a bad job of it, tossing the tissue to the floor. That's future Lovett's problem. Current Lovett has more pressing things to think about, like how he's been doing all this fucking work to keep Tommy in the box marked _do not even think about it_ , like how he has to get up and go to work in the morning and look Jon in the eye and pretend like none of this happened. Like how Tommy lives in the room across the fucking hall and Lovett is never going to be able to forget that one time, he let himself think _what if_.

He pulls his underwear back up and stares at the ceiling. There are footsteps on the stairs.

He recognizes the knock even before he hears Tommy's voice. He knows Tommy's _knock_. Fucking hell. “Lovett? Can we talk?”

Lovett's half-naked, still dotted with poorly mopped-up come, and all fucking twisted up about this whole night. No, they can't talk. He thinks about just feigning sleep, but he's not sure his door's locked and he doesn't want Tommy to try the knob. “Not tonight,” he calls, and hopes it sounds more sleepy than gruff.

There's a silence that feels approximately a hundred years long. Lovett's braced for Tommy to push, to try to convince him or to try the door—Tommy isn't usually the first one to back down—but instead, Tommy's just quiet.

“All right,” Tommy says. He sounds as if it's as all right as Lovett feels. “Uh—” but nothing else comes, and then there's the sound of him crossing the hall, the noise of his door snicking closed.

Lovett flops over, face-down in the pillows. Fuck.

Maybe he should have let Tommy try to talk. He could have put pants on; he could have told Tommy to talk through the door, maybe. Now he can't know what the hell Tommy was going to say. “Why are you so fucking obsessed with me” seems like option one, although Lovett knows that's unfair to both of them. Tommy knows none of this is Lovett's fault, and he doesn't know—god, Lovett hopes he doesn't know—about the crush, the frantic jerking off.

So probably more like another apology, and some kind of weird ... fuck knows what he'll say about the guy. _Any port in a storm,_ maybe, except Tommy's hardly having a drought. If he'd wanted to get sucked off by a woman, that wouldn't have been too hard to arrange. So ... so, probably, he didn't mind getting off with a guy.

Maybe—fuck, _probably_ , then, Tommy went out to get off with a guy. Like, that was his aim. They'd gone into that bar together and Tommy had been thinking about that, had walked in next to Lovett and looked at the other guys.

Lovett wishes and doesn’t wish that he’d gotten a better look at the guy, so he’d know—what Tommy wants, that Lovett isn’t. He can guess, or anyway his insecurities can. He rolls over and hugs the pillow to his chest, takes deep breaths. This is stupid. He needs to sleep. He needs to stop thinking about all of this and just sleep. Tommy doesn’t want to fuck his friends; that’s normal. That’s good, probably. Healthy boundaries. Good, solid life decisions. Yeah.

He just has to keep telling himself that. He can do that. He can definitely do that.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

***

Tommy feels like he spent half of his work day just trying to corral Lovett. He managed it eventually—after at least three times Lovett managed to scuttle away from him with a “gotta run! Deadlines!” brush-off—and Lovett agreed, before running off again, to talk to him after work.

He feels—guilty, for putting Lovett in that situation so many times, and embarrassed, for _being_ in that situation so many times, and stupid—almost most of all stupid—for taking so long to notice what was staring him in the face until, well, it literally was.

He has to clear the air, one way or another. It’s awful, having Lovett avoid him. He’ll apologize, and they’ll actually talk, and then if he thinks maybe—maybe it could be okay to put it out there. Thoughtfully, promising not to be weird at home or at work if Lovett isn’t—if Lovett isn’t interested.

Tommy spends a lot of time staring at his emails and not seeing the screen before the end of the day. What he keeps seeing instead is Lovett's expression when he pushed open the stall door, shock turning to something deeper turning to recognition, as Tommy—

Well. If Tommy had needed to catch a clue, coming more or less the moment he saw Lovett’s face pretty much did the trick. That and, all right, by the time he’d gotten back to the bathroom with—what had his name been? Josh?—Tommy had already been thinking about Lovett, more than a little.

They'd been pretty tightly packed at the bar—Lovett finally reaching the end of his streak of never having to carry drinks back—and Tommy had been more than usually aware of Lovett's shoulder pressing against his side, of the way Lovett's hair was starting to curl, longer than he usually let it get.

He still hadn’t—now, okay, he feels like a dumbass, but just then, tipsy, thinking about Lovett and _I gotta get laid_ back to back didn’t seem connected. Maybe-Josh, at the bar, smiling over at him unsubtly—that had interrupted most of his Lovett train of thought. Not all of it, though.

So maybe he'd gone into the bathroom with Josh still thinking about Lovett, in the back of his mind. Wondering whether Lovett had ever done this, hooked up with a random in a bar bathroom with all his friends at a table outside.

And that had turned, too easily, into what Lovett would feel like, kissing him like this with Tommy’s hand pressed to his dick. To what Lovett would look like dropping to his knees and pushing Tommy’s hips firmly into the wall. When Lovett had walked in—well. Tommy has sure been primed to react.

He spares a moment—alone, for once, in his shoebox office—to drop his head into his hands. He's been—stupid, he's been so stupid. He also can't stop hearing Lovett's voice, tight and defensive, when Tommy knocked on his door. He wants to make sure he does this right, this evening, that he doesn't, like, say something stupid and fuck everything up. Further up.

It probably isn't helping him to recount yesterday evening, because, yeah, it was embarrassing, but it was also sort of crazy hot—getting off in a bathroom with a guy he picked up at the bar, and then Lovett just _being there_ , like he'd been conjured straight out of Tommy's burgeoning fantasies about him.

And given, uh, everything, he should definitely not be having this conversation with Lovett while he's this turned on.

He groans and checks his watch. Fine. Lovett won't be home for at least an hour; he can run home, rub one out, maybe wash up, meet Lovett with a couple of beers downstairs and they can talk like, whatever. Like men and colleagues. A man and a colleague that Tommy super wants to bone. 

He's just gonna—probably it's better if he just gets that out of the way so he's not thinking—well, so he's thinking better, and less like someone who saw his friend's face and immediately came.

He packs up his stuff and manages what he's pretty sure is a non-weird “gonna do some work from home!” to Sam. The metro's running easy and not too crowded—he should leave early more often—and the house is quiet when he gets home.

He strips, because no point messing up his work clothes just because he's become the guy who goes home early to jack off, and spreads out on the bed. He can take a little time for fantasy now. There's nothing wrong with that, really. Just—imagining, a little, whether Lovett would have gotten off with him in a bar bathroom. Whether he could have just ... walked into the stall with them and closed the door, kissed Tommy while Tommy got his dick sucked.

He bets Lovett would have been competitive about it, pushy, like he'd be trying to prove that his kiss was doing more for Tommy than the mouth on his dick. He'd be right, Tommy thinks, starting to jerk himself, slowly. He'd—god, he'd probably be right about that.

Just kissing Lovett would be everything. Lovett looks like he knows how to kiss, like that kind of former nerd who's a total tiger in the bedroom, wound up with energy. Tommy's dated women like that, glasses and baggy sweaters and big boots, who rocked his fucking world. Lovett probably—Lovett probably knows exactly how to make a guy beg for more.

And Tommy could—Tommy would give it right back, finding Lovett's buttons and pushing them until Lovett begged too, the pair of them desperate and working together, competitive and cooperative like always.

He shuts his eyes and pictures it a little better. Forget Josh, forget the bathroom. Right here, making out on the bed. Lovett—maybe Lovett over him, straddling him, so Tommy can grab his ass and pull him down harder, can run his hands all over Lovett's broad back and his thighs.

Maybe—maybe Lovett in his boxers so Tommy can get a good feel of him, all over, Lovett bare to him and letting him see. He's never even seen Lovett shirtless and they _live_ together. He strokes himself a little faster, thinking about it.

He's probably got twenty, thirty minutes, but he's not inclined to draw this out. Not when picturing Lovett's skin under his fingers and his mouth has him this hard. He could be stroking Lovett like this, instead; he could roll Lovett over and get a hand into his pants, pull—god—pull his dick out and squeeze it. He could look down and actually see it, poking out of his fist, and Lovett would—Lovett would make some kind of noise, moan or make one of those stifled _uhh_ sounds.

Tommy would really fucking like to hear that. Lovett works sometimes at controlling what he sounds like—something Tommy hadn't known until Lovett had mentioned something in passing one night, both of them very drunk, Lovett saying something about using his gay voice and then rapidly changing the topic—and Tommy wants to hear him _undone_ , just for Tommy, letting him hear all the squirmy vulnerable noises Lovett can't keep back.

He'd like to—god, he'd like to get Lovett under him and crawl down and suck him, see how _that_ would make Lovett sound. See if Lovett would put a hand in his hair or on his jaw to show Tommy how he likes it, how he wants to—

“Listen, let's just do this, because I've—motherfucker!”

Lovett has opened his door. Lovett has opened his door and is standing there and Tommy's got his clothes off and his dick out and _how the fuck does this keep happening to him!_

He freezes, staring at Lovett for a long stupid disbelieving second, and then scrambles to cover himself, one hand cupping his dick while he flails for the blankets. Lovett isn't moving either, just staring back, like he's—like he's—Tommy has no idea. He can't think past the siren of _why_.

He's still in the fucking doorway, too, which— “In or out, Lovett! Can you just—”

Lovett, for some reason, comes in, and shuts the door behind him. Tommy's at least under blankets now, but this is not exactly the tone he wanted to set for—everything. “Uh. Okay. You can sit?” Tommy gestures at the desk chair. “You're, uh, home early.”

Lovett isn't looking at him, which seems reasonable. Tommy doesn't super want to look at himself either.

“I can put pants on,” Tommy offers, trying to give it a light tone. “Give me a couple minutes?”

That’s the wrong tack. Lovett’s spine straightens. “It’s fine. Can we just—you’re the one who wanted to talk, so ...” He shrugs. “Talk.”

If there was an opposite of what Tommy had been opening for, this is it. “All right,” he says, trying to work through how awkward he feels. “I, uh. Wanted to apologise, first. Fuck, like—last night—all of it—” he has to take a breath and make himself start thinking properly.

This was supposed to go differently. This was supposed to be— “Although, you know, also you probably shouldn’t force open bathroom stalls and just walk into my room if you’re gonna get so weird about seeing things you don’t want to see,” he says, which is so far from what he’d planned to say it might as well be on another planet.

Lovett goes still. “ _You_ should probably learn how to lock a door if you didn't want to be walked in on,” he says. “And—and it didn't look like you _minded_ , that last time, so maybe think about _that_ before you say anything else.” 

Tommy starts to bite back, and then stops. _Didn't look like you minded_ —Jesus, had it been that obvious?

And there's this: Lovett, in Tommy's desk chair, fidgeting, looking like he's in full fight-or-flight mode. Something's not exactly right with that. Lovett's avoidance of Tommy isn't quite right; it doesn't add up to just awkwardness. Lovett breezes through most kinds of awkwardness by pretending to be unbothered; he doesn't usually hide away.

“Can, uh. Can I start over?” Tommy asks.

Lovett shrugs, spinning just slightly in the desk chair, this way and that. “If you want,” and that's not right either: Lovett this on edge doesn't acquiesce so quickly, doesn't let anything, even small things, go without pushing.

It's like, Tommy realises, it's like he's waiting for Tommy to call _him_ out on something.

“I, uh.” Tommy sits up a little, blanket slipping down, and because he's watching Lovett carefully, he sees the way Lovett's eyes go right to his chest, and then away to the far wall. He thinks maybe—well. Maybe. “I meant to do this downstairs, so when I, um, when I said at the end that like ... I like you, and I'd like to go out, but I swear I won't make it weird if you don't, it wouldn't be, uh—well, I wouldn't have been naked, for one.”

He's just so aware of how naked he is, of his dick, a thin sheet away from Lovett's gaze.

“Yes, well, I see why you'd be worried about the nudity,” Lovett says, still looking at the wall. “Protecting your modesty.”

Tommy's heart sinks. He doesn't know exactly what that means, but it's pretty clearly not a yes. “Uh—little late there,” he says, and tries to make it a joke. “Pretty sure you've seen it all at this point.” And aren't into it, but Tommy doesn't add that, because he swore he wouldn't make it weird. “Anyway. I'll start locking things better. Sorry about all the—yeah. And I'll—I'll just hang out up here tonight, so there's no—so you have the evening to yourself. And I won't be weird, and I'll, it'll be normal, I swear. You won't know the difference.”

Lovett fidgets again. “Uh,” he says, and this is a truly terrible time for Tommy's ability to read Lovett to run for the hills, “you could... not do that. As another option.”

“Not be normal?” Tommy asks. Lovett's being—he doesn't know. He doesn't seem like he's trying to be mean, or frankly like he's trying to be anything. He's just being strange. “I don't know what that means.” Unless Lovett wants him to be, whatever, fruitlessly besotted just to build up Lovett's ego, but Lovett wouldn't _say_ that. He's pretty sure Lovett wouldn't even think that, because Lovett's a good man, even if he sometimes pretends not to be. He's good and Tommy has a massive crush on him and he'd really like this conversation to be over now so Lovett can just leave and Tommy doesn't have to look at him and know it's not going to happen.

 

“It means,” Lovett says, slowly, “that you—you _like_ me, right, that's what I'm getting from this? And I hope I'm right otherwise this is going up in the ranking of my life embarrassments.”

“We really don't have to talk about it anymore,” Tommy says. He feels bone-tired, suddenly. “I'm sorry. I mean, I'm not sorry that I feel—whatever, but I'm sorry if it makes you feel weird or, um, awkward.” Which it obviously does. “Can you just, like, go now?” Maybe that's a little rude, but honestly, he doesn't want to sit here and dissect his stupid crush on Lovett _with_ Lovett.

“Uh,” Lovett says, not moving. “No, actually.”

Tommy thinks he must have misheard, at first, but it becomes clear he didn't: Lovett is going kind of red for the first time, still staring at the wall behind Tommy like it's got some sort of secret code on that he can crack if he just stares long enough. “No?”

“Not without, uh, clearing something up.” Lovett's jiggling his leg. “You're not the only one. Who'd, uh, like to go out.” When Tommy doesn't say anything, it's like a dam has burst in Lovett; he just keeps going, leg jiggling faster. “I thought that's what you wanted to talk about. I thought you'd guessed, and you wanted to yell at me for being, uh, weird, or inappropriate, or getting my gay cooties on you by thinking about—about what I kept seeing.”

Tommy can’t even process that. He’s aware he’s just staring, probably looking like an idiot, but—but did Lovett really just say—

“So,” Lovett adds, like he can’t handle the silence, “pants are optional, really. I mean, arguably detrimental, even, to the whole, uh, the whole prospective—” He stops and rubs his hand across his mouth, breathing deep. “Unless—I mean, not to rush things, or anything.”

Tommy thought he felt naked before, but that had nothing on this. “Prospective sounds good,” he manages. “I could hear more about that.”

“Uh,” Lovett says. “This is dumb, right? I should just—” He gets up, puts a knee on the bed, and hesitates just long enough for Tommy to lean in and wrap a hand around the back of his neck and kiss him.

Lovett just—melts into the kiss almost immediately, swaying towards Tommy. He kisses like he's been thinking about this as much as Tommy has, like he's been wanting it just as much, or more, and somehow Tommy had _no idea_.

Maybe Lovett—maybe when Lovett walked in on Tommy going down on Melissa, maybe Lovett had gotten so weird because he was thinking about being on the receiving end of Tommy’s mouth. God.

Tommy wants to do that. That, and this, and a million other things, and Lovett’s hand is on his bare chest now and Tommy isn’t entirely certain this isn’t a vivid dream.

Tommy's at a weird angle, using more of his core to keep himself up than is really comfortable, but Lovett's mouth is on his and he can feel Lovett's breath coming faster.

He’s sure—pretty sure—almost definitely sure Lovett’s up for more than kissing, so Tommy tugs him down, lying back with Lovett over him. Like this, he can relax and start to touch Lovett back, the way he’s been thinking about. Lovett’s soft and warm under the hem of his button-down, and he makes a startled, pleased sound when Tommy gets a hand on the bare skin of his back.

It seems to give Lovett whatever permission he needed, because he swings his leg over until he's straddling Tommy for real, so exactly like Tommy was just—was it really only minutes ago—just imagining that he can't help but groan, deeper as Lovett's weight settles and rubs against his dick.

“This is, uh. Kind of almost exactly what I was thinking about when you came in. Making out with you like this, so I could—” He runs his hand down Lovett’s back and onto the curve of his as, over his slacks.

“Grope me?” Lovett fills in, and Tommy laughs and squeezes Lovett’s ass in agreement. 

“Grope away,” Lovett tells him, and his hips hitch gratifyingly when Tommy digs his fingers in. “Fuck, uh, you wanna get on the rest of what you were thinking? Really fill me in?” He's pulled back far enough that Tommy can see the obscene thing he does with his eyebrows and it feels so—so _Lovett_ , so good and familiar, even in this new setting. 

He tries to remember what else he’d been imagining; it’s hard to think with just a sheet and Lovett’s clothes between them. He’d thought about kissing Lovett while Josh sucked him off, but that doesn’t seem like something he should say. He says, instead, “Thought about blowing you.” 

Lovett shudders; Tommy can feel it roll through him. “Don't—don't let me stop you,” he says, and Tommy is almost frozen with the desperately hot thought of it, of flipping them over and holding Lovett down by the hips, sucking him down, filling his mouth with the weight and taste of Lovett's cock. 

Lovett’s still _dressed_. It’s weirdly hot, and Tommy discards the idea of stripping him and instead just rolls them, carefully—he doesn’t have a huge bed—and kisses Lovett’s chest through the thin cotton of his button-down.

The sheets are tangled between them, and Tommy has to fight them to get to Lovett’s fly. He has to sit up to look for a path through the twisted fabric, and as he does he sees Lovett’s face, eyes fixed on Tommy’s. He looks how Tommy feels: needy, and like—like this might be a vivid dream.

He doesn't know if he can find the words to get that feeling across, the way his heart's in his throat, the way he wants to keep his hands on Lovett to make sure he's real, to know he's there. He thinks maybe, from the way Lovett's looking back, that Lovett knows.

He ducks his head, instead, and drags Lovett's fly down, not waiting, mouthing at Lovett through his underwear.

“Oh—oh, you're—” Lovett's hands find Tommy's shoulders, and Tommy can feel that they're shaking, just a little, until they've got a good grip on him, like Lovett's steadying himself on Tommy's skin. “God, I mean, I didn't think you were kidding, exactly, but, uh.”

Tommy decides he can make it clear how much he's not kidding without needing to use words. He doesn't linger; another time, he will, he'll work Lovett up through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs until Lovett's begging him for more. Today, he's going to just get Lovett's cock in his mouth like he's been daydreaming about. 

“Hips up,” he says, hands on Lovett's waistband. His voice comes out rough with need, he can hear it. Lovett—obliging, the easiest Tommy's ever seen him do anything he's asked—lifts his hips up and Tommy drags his slacks and his underwear down just enough that he can— _god_ , suck Lovett down.

Lovett's breath catches in his throat, loud and then silent, Lovett frozen under him. Tommy wants to make him need to move, bets he can if he applies himself. Tommy's _great_ at applying himself.

He doesn't start easy; he just goes for it, sucking the head of Lovett's cock, feeling how hard he is for Tommy. Feeling, with one hand, the way Lovett's pulse is racing in the soft skin at the top of his thigh. Lovett's hands are still gripping Tommy's shoulders and Tommy flexes them a little, under Lovett's hands, trying to tell Lovett it's okay to move, if he wants to.

Lovett's fingers tighten for a second, a quick thing, and Tommy keeps going, sucks at him hard and fast, working his tongue. He's missed giving head, more than he thought, and to be doing it for _Lovett_ —Lovett's hips jerk suddenly, when Tommy uses his lips just under the head of his cock, adds pressure. “Sorry,” Lovett chokes, but Tommy figures the way he dives straight back down gives Lovett answer enough: it's hot, it's so fucking hot, to make Lovett start to lose control.

Tommy’s overheated, still partly tangled in the sheet. He pulls off just enough to peel it off his back, out from between them, and toss it to the side. “Fucking—you’re so hot,” Lovett mumbles. “You’re so—don’t stop.” It’s almost a question, and it fits with the soft way Lovett lifts a hand to Tommy’s head, cupping but not tugging, rubbing his thumb in soft circles.

Tommy doesn't stop. He can't think of anything he wants to do less right now than stop. Lovett's cock is heavy on his tongue, undeniable, and he can feel Lovett leak precome, and _he_ did that to him, he made Lovett taste of need and desperation.

Lovett's still got his shirt on, and his pants are barely down his thighs, and Tommy's curled, naked, over him, _servicing_ him—Jesus, this is hot. Tommy's gonna be jerking off to this for a thousand years. And in a minute, he thinks, Lovett might jerk him off and Tommy can whisper, hot-faced, about how hot it was, how hot Lovett is, how Lovett's dick feels in his mouth. Tommy's pretty sure Lovett would like that, a litany of everything Tommy gets off on about Lovett.

Lovett's working harder to stay still now, Tommy can tell: his thigh is twitching under Tommy's hand, helpless, and his breathing is coming shorter, rougher. Tommy wants fiercely to make him come, to taste it, to—

“'m close,” Lovett gasps, above him.

Tommy changes his grip, holding the back of Lovett's thigh, up by his ass, keeping him close. If Lovett really wants to pull away, Tommy will let him, but he wants Lovett to know Tommy wants this, wants Lovett to come in his mouth. He sucks harder, cheeks hollowing, and tries to keep his rhythm fast and steady, tries to help Lovett get over the edge.

Lovett makes one caught noise, deep in his throat, and then Tommy can feel the throb of his cock, the squeeze of muscles under his hand. The taste, and then he loses focus on that, too busy managing the flood of it. Lovett comes a _lot_ , it turns out, or maybe it just feels like a lot because it's been so long since Tommy last went down on a guy, but it's spilling out over his chin, messy and warm.

He can't keep it from getting on Lovett's slacks but honestly, right now he doesn't care. All the tension of orgasm goes out of Lovett's body when he's done—Tommy feeling the muscles in Lovett's ass relax under his hand—and Tommy gives in to impulse and kisses Lovett's thigh, his wet cock, not quite cleaning him up, but not quite not, either.

“You—so—actually not a straight bro, then,” Lovett says, weakly. “Or else you fake it really well.”

Tommy laughs, and pointedly licks right up the length of Lovett's dick again, making Lovett shudder. “Okay, okay, not faking,” Lovett says, and reaches down to tug Tommy's shoulder upwards. “Come—come here, come make out with me some more. Isn't that what—isn't that what you were jerking off thinking about? We can, uh, we can make that real twice.”

It figures, really, that Lovett's talkative after he comes.

Tommy doesn't kid himself that he climbs up the bed with any grace, but he gets up there and kisses Lovett, letting Lovett tug him down.

He tries to keep from pressing against Lovett's sensitized cock but he wants, so fucking much, to grind his own against Lovett's warm body. There's so little skin available, and now he pushes at Lovett's shirt, trying to get more of it. “Lemme see you,” he says, voice thick. “Lemme—been thinking about how good you look, Lovett, lemme see more of you.”

He's clumsy, doesn't even try for any of the buttons, but he pushes the fabric up enough that he can press their bellies together, skin to skin, and can't help the satisfied noise he makes. Lovett feels as good as he thought he would.

“Getting, uh, what you want?” Lovett asks, and even though it must be verging on too much, he rolls his hips so he gives Tommy some friction. Tommy could cry from how good it feels, and how good it is to have _Lovett_ do it, gorgeous laughing Lovett in Tommy's arms.

“Not—enough,” Tommy admits, because this is, yes, so fucking good, but he wants more. He wants Lovett to touch him, so much. “Would—would you—?”

“Anything,” Lovett cuts in, too fast, so sincere it tightens Tommy's chest. That feels like more than a statement of willingness to jerk him off or blow him. It feels like acceptance of all the other things Tommy wants, too.

But the handjob for now, anyway.

Lovett squirms around until he frees an arm and barely hesitates before reaching between them, cupping Tommy's dick. Tommy knows he's wet, leaking need, but he isn't prepared for how Lovett swears when he touches him, low and earnest.

“God, that's—yeah, touch me, that's all I want, J—uh, Lovett—”

Lovett snorts, and grasps him for real. “You can call me Jon. It's allowed. Probably encouraged, in the circumstances.” He squeezes, gently, like he's trying it out. Tommy's entirely sure Lovett knows his way around a dick, which means, he thinks, that Lovett's curious about Tommy's dick, specifically. The thought makes Tommy need to shove into Lovett's hand, once and then again, too needy to stop his hips from moving.

“Jon. Jonathan. Jonny—”

“Okay, don't make it weird.”

“Not Jonny,” Tommy says, half-laughing, as Lovett makes a pleased noise and keeps going. “Jon, please—please can you—”

“Definitely yes when you sound like that,” Lovett says. “Fucking hell.”

Tommy wants to roll them, wants Lovett poised over him, jerking him off where Tommy can easily watch the movement of his hands, his wrists—his whole arms and his shoulder if Tommy'd had the foresight to take his damned shirt off—but there's no time for that now, and Tommy's not risking them falling off the bed. Later. Later, he wants everything.

“You should—god—we should go out. Not tonight, just—I want to take you out. Dinner, or, uh, anything. Anywhere you—Jesus, that's so fucking good.” Lovett's given up on exploration and is just going for it now, hand tight and twisting and perfect. Tommy drops his face into Lovett's chest, feeling fabric instead of skin against his lips but at least feeling Lovett's warmth through it.

He's expecting Lovett to say something back like of _course_ it's good, but instead Lovett just kisses the side of his head, so tender. “I'd love to go out with you, Tommy Vietor,” he says, and then he picks up the pace on Tommy's dick, and Tommy loses any hope of words.

He tucks his face up higher, mouth lax at the base of Lovett's throat. He'd kiss Lovett here if he could manage to control any muscle not devoted to keeping him on his knees and elbows so Lovett can jerk him off. He'd—god, up like this, it's so easy to imagine Lovett behind him, curled up over him all warm on Tommy's back. Not even fucking, just—just this, just Lovett's warm wet tight hand, just Lovett's voice in his ear. “Tell—talk to me—” he manages, hoping Lovett might be willing.

Lovett huffs out a laugh, not meanly, just amused. “That's not what people usually say.” Tommy attempts to make a noise that conveys exactly how wrong those people are. “All right, okay, you want me to talk to you?” His hand is strong, twisting just right. “You want me to—” the slightest pause, the slightest wobble in Lovett's voice: something real is coming, something vulnerable “—you want to know how much I've—been thinking about jerking you off? About getting your cock in my hand?”

Tommy manages to nod, maybe a little frantic, against Lovett's chest. It gets the point across, he thinks, because Lovett's hand speeds up, and he says, “I—you would too, if you had to see you in that, that post-coital towel getup. That was bad enough, and then there was the—you on your knees between anyone's legs would have been pretty fucking inspiring, okay?”

Tommy thinks he manages to grunt in the affirmative, chasing Lovett's hand. Heat is prickling down his back. Lovett keeps going. “And then—after I saw you in the bar, I had to—do you even know what you looked like?”

Tommy doesn't know, but he can remember Lovett's eyes on him, the way it had set him off. He manages, somehow, to lift up his head and kiss the underside of Lovett's jaw, scratchy from the hours since he last shaved. “Yeah, you liked that, I know you liked that. You'd—bet you'd like me to watch you jerking off, wouldn't you? I'd like that. Thought about that, about—sitting at the end of your bed, watching you get yourself off for me.”

Tommy's not going to last; he can't. Lovett's too close and everything he's saying is perfect and Tommy groans against his skin, trying to convey _I'm close_ when his mouth can't seem to form words.

Lovett's voice wobbles, like he understood. Like he understands and thinks it's—it's hot, god, Lovett in Tommy's bed, wanting him to come.

“Maybe,” Lovett says, breathing picking up like he's the one barrelling to the edge, “maybe you'd try to go slow, you know, show off for me, but I don't think you'd manage. I'd want to see you come, I want to, are you gonna show me, Tommy? Show me what I want—”

Tommy gasps, feeling it hit him, Lovett's words and Lovett's grip and everything good in the whole fucking world, really, all of it right here in this warm space between them. He's coming, shaking against Lovett, finally releasing all of the pent-up need he's been feeling since he walked out of that bar with the wrong guy's number in his phone.

Lovett jerks him through it until the sensation is almost too much, and then lets him go, Tommy flopping down almost immediately, arms trembling. He just about manages not to land entirely on top of Lovett.

“Heavy,” Lovett complains anyway, but his other hand is stroking through Tommy's hair now, gently. “Uh—you can walk stuff back now, if you want. Nothing anybody says mid-handjob is binding. I can go back to my room—by way of a shower—and we can just, um, this can just be a weird dream you had, if that's what you want.”

Tommy tries to lie on him in a more deliberate way. His heart is still racing, aftershocks not quite over. “Stay,” he manages. “If you—please.”

He actually feels Lovett relax under him, softening. “Sure. I don't have anywhere to be. The dry-cleaner, maybe. If I have to wear shorts to the office tomorrow I'm telling Jon it's your fault.”

“Uh-huh,” Tommy mumbles. “Sure. Go for it.”

“I will,” Lovett insists, but his hand comes up to stroke Tommy's hair. It feels really good, and Tommy lets himself push into it, encourage it.

“Still heavy,” Lovett tells him, and Tommy huffs a laugh and rolls most of the way off of him. Lovett puts his hand back once Tommy gets back into place, and Tommy slides his fingers between the buttons on Lovett's shirt, petting the soft fuzz of Lovett's chest.

“What are you even doing?” Lovett asks, but he sounds pleased. “Are you into that?”

“Into what? Into you? Yeah, I'm pretty into you,” Tommy tells him. He feels sex-drunk, wrung out suddenly and like his mouth is moving ahead of his brain. “Very into you.”

Lovett wriggles like he's pleased. “I bet you say that to all the boys,” he says. His arm tightens around Tommy, pulling him a little closer in, and it's—Tommy's had relationships that never felt this easy, not even months in.

“Uh-huh,” Tommy says. “Sure. All of ‘em. But I only mean it with you, baby.”

Lovett laughs, low and contented. Tommy wants to make him laugh like that forever. “Oh, well, that’s fine then.”

Tommy props himself up on an elbow. His heart is beating fast again, suddenly. Lovett looks—sweet, lying there. Happy, and relaxed. “I mean it,” he says. “Not, uh, just as a bit.”

“You mean it that you're a massive player?” Lovett says, but then his face softens. “Yeah. Okay. Well—good. Although you should know I have champagne tastes, so.”

“You have Miller Lite tastes,” Tommy says. “I know you already, and I'm into it, so.”

“So,” Lovett echoes, clearly trying not to smile as wide as he wants to.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. He's smiling pretty big himself. He ducks down to kiss Lovett again, sweeter this time, a sort of... meaningful press of mouths.

“You know, I don't really have to be in until like eleven tomorrow,” Lovett murmurs. His eyes keep darting to Tommy's mouth.

Tommy has to be in at eight, but on the other hand, who needs sleep? “Yeah,” he says, and dives back in.

***

Lovett's never found much practical appeal in shower sex—there's never enough space and the water adds an element of farcical potential to the whole event—but he's being convinced otherwise.

It helps that they started off in Tommy's bedroom, where Lovett has taken to spending upwards of half his non-work time. He wants to take full advantage of the conveniences of a honeymoon period with someone he already lives with: so sue him.

Cody and Michael might, actually, if he and Tommy don't cool it down a little. “Are you seriously going upstairs again instead of hanging out with us? Uncool, man,” had been Michael's last volley; Cody just made a variety of pointed hand gestures while shaking his head at, if Lovett understands correctly, the bros-before-hos betrayal of it all.

He's not sure who's the bro and who's the ho in that particular analogy—or if they're both the ho?—but any lingering guilt is rapidly being driven out of his mind by Tommy, caging him up against a wall to kiss like it's been a hundred years since they last fooled around and not a few hours, since the morning, when Lovett had _almost_ made Tommy late by blowing him when his godawful alarm went off.

He only vaguely knows how they got into the bathroom from Tommy’s bedroom, because Tommy’s mouth turns his brain off these days. Tommy’s working Lovett’s zipper down without letting the kiss pause for a second, so at least Lovett was definitely wearing pants while they were in the hallway. He loses some more time to Tommy’s hand wriggling into the fly of his boxer-briefs, and finds he’s groaning “Yeah, just like that,” into Tommy’s throat.

Tommy's really fucking good at this, it turns out: has big strong hands and knows how to use them, is learning Lovett's dick with the same kind of focused competence he brings to everything that matters to him. It's devastatingly hot. Unfairly hot, frankly, but far be it for Lovett to complain about it right now, with Tommy's hand in his underwear and Tommy pressing him into the wall.

Lovett focuses better, because these are the parts he wants to keep in his memory forever, the parts where Tommy's close and warm and _wanting him_ , god.

“We could be doing this in a bed,” Lovett points out helpfully.

“We could be doing this in the shower with my fingers in you,” Tommy counters.

They can both feel what Lovett's dick thinks about that. “Interesting point,” Lovett says, tipping his head back to give Tommy better access. “You, uh, got a plan for that? Got more to tell me?”

“I bet if you get your leg around me I can keep kissing you while I do it.”

“Oh, a challenge.” Lovett grins. “Worth a try.”

They break apart to skitter out of the rest of their clothes, Lovett bouncing on the ball of one foot to get his other sock off, too turned-on to easily keep his balance.

He manages it just as Tommy pushes him back against the wall, both of them naked, caught up for a moment in the feel of it, their bodies together, the promise of more. This could almost be all there was in the world, Tommy's mouth and his arms and his _dick_.

He barely cares about the idea of moving to the shower; they could get off right here, just like this, with Tommy’s ass squeezed in his fingers and Tommy’s—

“Jesus Christ!” Michael says, from _way_ too close. Lovett turns to see him frozen in the doorway, staring.

“Hell, no,” Lovett says, and firmly shuts the door in his face. And locks it.


End file.
